


the falling and the faded luck

by CloudAtlas



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Multi, Potential future Clint/Nat/Bucky, Sharing a Bed, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: “Get in the fucking bed, Barnes.”Barnes glares at the bed, then at Clint, then back to the bed. Then he grunts and toes off his boots.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 37
Kudos: 132
Collections: Poly Armory Tropes and AUs





	the falling and the faded luck

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Poly Armory Discord Server's trope+AU challenge, where I got "sharing a bed" and "soulmates AU". Title from Michicant by Bon Iver. I tried to think of something better but came up blank so it's stuck being called this now. Thank you to **alistra** for beta.

“This isn’t a fucking negotiation, Barnes,” Clint says, throwing down another armful of blankets and towels onto the bed. “I’m not freezing to death because you’ve got some weird no homo hang ups.”

Barnes scowls at him but Clint, who has had years of practice ignoring Natasha’s many and sundry scowls, blithely ignores him.

Honestly, Clint’s not surprised Barnes is put out. For starters, exfil should have picked them up hours ago but didn’t because of some fuck up or another. On top of that, this safe house is on the shittier end of shitty and the bed is narrow enough that it’d be a challenge to fit one fully grown adult into it, let alone two.

But the temperature is plummeting and Clint can’t be bothered to deal with Barnes’ hang ups on top of every other stupid fucking thing that has happened during this mission.

“Get in the fucking bed, Barnes.”

Barnes glares at the bed, then at Clint, then back to the bed. Then he grunts and toes off his boots.

“Glad we could come to an agreement” Clint says blandly. “Big spoon or little spoon?”

Barnes’ glare gets, if possible, even more fierce. He shucks his tac pants and jacket, leaving him in only his base layer, socks, and gloves, and climbs into the bed, back against the wall.

“Cool,” Clint says, entirely unsurprised, “I love being the little spoon.”

Barnes is going to hurt himself soon, he’s scowling so hard, but Clint’s not even kidding; being the little spoon is awesome. Sure, Natasha’s a foot shorter than him, but they make it work.

Clint spreads the last few towels and blankets over Barnes before quickly shucking his own clothes – “ _fuck_ , it’s cold” – and wiggling under Barnes’ entirely uncooperative left arm.

Then –

“Shit, hold on.”

He climbs out of bed again (Barnes _scowls harder_ ) rummaging through their piles of clothes until he finds their hats, shoving his own onto his head before unceremoniously yanking Barnes’ down over his greasy hair.

“You lose lots of heat through your head,” he mumbles as he climbs back under Barnes’ (still uncooperative, the bastard) arm and settling again.

Barnes says nothing.

If it had been Clint’s choice, he’d be doing this mission with Nat, or Cap, or literally anyone else. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ Barnes – he likes the man fine and forgives a lot of his oddities because Hydra fuckery is a bitch – but he’s surly and uncommunicative and tends to stare at Clint like he’s a particularly baffling oddity of the twenty-first century that he hasn’t worked out yet. Clint can put up with a lot but even for him it’s starting to wear thin. Clint’s not even _done_ anything. He’s just nice and polite and tries to include Barnes in whatever inane shit he’s got going on that he thinks will appeal, same as he does for _literally_ _everyone else._ Would it help if he was more of a bastard? Make snide remarks like Tony? Edge around him like Bruce? Christ, he’s just trying to be _nice_.

Well, fuck it. If Barnes has a problem with him he can use his big boy words and tell him. Until then, Clint will continue as he has been. _He’s_ not gonna be the asshole here.

“You gonna freak out if I push back?” Clint asks. His knees are still stuck out over the edge of the mattress and it’s allowing cold air to sneak its way under their pile of blankets. However, the only way to stop it happening will put Clint’s ass in close proximity to Barnes’ dick. Sharing a bed for warmth is one thing but Clint doesn’t feel he and Barnes are close enough that he can overstep this particular boundary without asking first.

It wouldn’t be _weird_ really – their faces are literally the only bits of uncovered skin between them – but still.

“No,” Barnes grunts out.

“Cool.”

Clint scoots back, pressing flush against Barnes’ front and fumbling around his knees until he’s managed to tuck the blankets close again.

Better. He can already feel the temperature under the covers begin to rise. And Barnes is a super soldier; he pumps out heat like nobody’s business. Clint’s going to be toasty warm in no time.

Barnes’ arm tightens around his waist and Clint can feel himself start to relax as warmth seeps into his muscles.

He’s just about to nod off when Barnes shifts slightly, obviously getting comfortable, and the cold tip of his nose brushes against the nape of Clint’s neck, feather light. And, for the second time in Clint’s life, he feels a tug in his gut; the sensation of a puzzle piece fitting into a space that just moments before wasn’t there.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Clint breathes out, because that can _not_ be possible.

“What?” Barnes grunts.

“Do that again,” Clint demands because – he could have… that could have been a – a mistake or. A hallucination? Brought on by the… cold?

“Do what again?” Barnes asks, clearly confused.

“What do you – ?” Clint frowns. He tries to turn but the narrow bed won’t let him. “You didn’t feel that?”

“What?”

“The – ” Clint cuts himself off, starts again. “You really didn’t feel that?”

“Feel _what_?” Barnes says, clearly exasperated.

“Touch me again,” Clint demands.

“I _am_ touching you.”

“Don’t be fucking dense, Barnes. You know what I mean.”

Barnes doesn’t move but there’s an electric tension in the air which says he’s worked it out.

“But you – ”

“I _know_ ,” Clint snaps, the metallic taste of panic flooding his mouth. “I fucking _know_ I already have a fucking soulmate. She only beats me up every day in the gym. Fucking _touch me again_.”

There’s a beat of silence and then a rustle as Barnes moves to press his cold nose against the nape of Clint’s neck once more.

There’s a tug in Clint’s gut, sure and unmistakable.

“No,” Clint whispers, “I already have – ” he can feel his breath coming in panicked gasps. “I’ve already got – you really can’t feel that?” he asks incredulously.

Clint feels Barnes release a shuddery breath against his neck. “I – Hydra fucked – ”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Clint rasps out, cutting Barnes off. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Thanks to the Red Room, Natasha can only feel their soulbond intermittently – ‘like a badly tuned radio’. It stands to reason that Hydra would have done something similar to Barnes. Clint doesn’t know if this means Barnes will _never_ feel it, or if it’s just not ‘tuned in’ right now, but it’s unmistakably there.

“This is so fucked up,” he says, mostly to himself.

Behind him, he feels Barnes shift.

“Sorry,” Barnes says eventually.

“What the fuck are _you_ apologising for?” Clint snaps, panic making him lash out.

He feels Barnes shrug. “Just – nobody really wants _me_ as their soulmate, do they?”

“Fucking hell, Barnes, there’s nothing _wrong_ with you.”

There’s a long silence as Clint’s hamster-wheel brain spins frantically, trying to work out what this means, how it’s possible. Jesus, what is he going to tell _Nat_?

Then Clint feels Barnes huff out a laugh against the skin of his neck.

“Of course it would be you,” he says.

And this time Clint does turn over, blankets be damned. If Barnes is going to be an asshole about this, Clint’s damn well going to glare at him for it.

“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?” he snarls.

“I – nothing,” Barnes says, eyes wide in the low light. He looks shocked, contrite even. “It’s just… you treat me like a person – ”

“You _are_ a person.”

“ – and I dunno what to do with that.”

Clint stares at him. “What am I?” he asks eventually, incredulous. “Catnip for ex-brainwashed assassins?”

Barnes huffs out another laugh, cutting his gaze from Clint’s. “Looks like.”

Clint flops back onto their shared pillow and stares at the water-stained ceiling. “Jesus Christ.”

He feels shaky, the initial panic and adrenaline leaching from his body and leaving him jittery and exhausted. Turning over has shifted the blanket pile too and cold air presses against his spine, creeps across his shoulders.

He shivers. “Fuck. I gotta – ” He shifts, turns back over. “Lift your arm a sec.”

Barnes obliges this time and Clint carefully rearranges the blanket pile until he’s blocked out all the stray tendrils of cold. He then slots himself back against Barnes’ front and soon Barnes heavy left arm is once again curled around his waist, pressing them together.

“What…” Barnes says softly after a moment, his breath ghosting across the nape of Clint’s neck. “You think Romanov will be…?” He trails off, clearly unsure how to phrase his question.

“Hell, I dunno,” Clint replies, knowing what Barnes is asking regardless. “You ever touched her?”

He feels Barnes shrug awkwardly. “I – maybe? We’ve sparred a little but…”

Hydra fuckery. Clint sighs. If both their bond-senses are glitchy, there’s no real way of knowing if there’s a bond there or not. But triples are _vanishingly_ rare, most triads or poly groups that Clint knows of (which are few) are made up of soulbonded couples with unbonded additions. Hell, the only other person he even knows who has had two soulbonds is Steve Rogers, and the first died before he met the second. That’s understandable; that makes _sense_. This is just…

“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” Barnes says quietly, awkwardly patting Clint on his curled knee. “It’s okay.”

“You’re taking this alarmingly well.”

One again, Clint feels Barnes shrug. “Soulmates are good things,” he rumbles. “Not had many of those.”

Something about the way Barnes says that, so… matter of fact, pulls Clint up short. Because soulmates _are_ good things, generally. Yeah, there are shitty examples but they’re not common, and Clint apparently has _two_. That’s… well. Nice, in a way. He’s not _thrilled_ , but yeah. It could be worse. Natasha is likely to find it weird but she’s not gonna be a dick about it and Clint likes Barnes fine; they’ll work it out. Somehow. Even if it’s just platonic.

But he’s not sure how to _say_ that. Not really.

It’s warming up nicely under the blanket pile now and the adrenaline crash is pulling on Clint’s bones. Today was exhausting, even without the whole soulmate revelation, and he can feel his eyelids drooping as he loses the fight against sleep. He’s just about to drop off when he works out how to reply – to that tone, to the fact that Barnes is clearly pleased that he’s not so ‘broken’ he can’t have a soulmate.

“I’ll try,” Clint slurs mash-mouthed into the pillow, clumsily patting Barnes hand before remembering it’s metal and therefore a largely pointless gesture. “Promise.”

Clint can’t be sure, but he’s fairly sure he hears Barnes say, “I know,” low and oddly fond, before he finally drops off to sleep.


End file.
